‘Yeah, that was them.’ Joe leaned against the front desk, rapping his fingers nervously against the wood.
‘They’re not coming back. Those morons ran outta gas. I gave them a few gallons and sent ’em on their way. I’ve gotta hand it to you, you picked a fight with some raw characters.’
‘What they were doing to that girl…there was only one choice to make.’
‘I’m not saying you made the wrong decision, not by a long shot.’ Zeb flipped off the Open sign. ‘Have you heard of the Arm?’
Joe eased off the front desk. ‘No.’
Zeb got another cup of coffee and led Joe to the deck. ‘Remember how I told you Slushland’s disease will spread to the rest of the south if somethin’ isn’t done? Well, the Arm is determined to spread that sickness as fast and as violently as possible.’
The sun had come up properly now, breaking through the fog that hung over the water and casting a yellow shimmer on its surface. ‘The Arm’s led by a guy named Townes, a real tough bastard whose goal is to break the south. Once it’s broken to his liking, the Arm will take over as some kind of chaos government. A buddy of mine named Phillip thinks that their end goal is to declare war on the North.’
‘That’s a tall order for a Slushland gang.’
‘They’re turnin’ into more than a gang. Townes knows what he’s doing, which is the bitch of it all. He’s a good leader. Crazy as hell, but good.’
‘What’re they doing in Slushland?’ Joe’s mind sifted through the articles he’d read, trying to remember anything about the Arm or this guy Townes, but neither name sounded familiar. It was disconcerting that this news hadn’t reached Hell Paso yet. If Townes and his gang were legitimate, it would have far-reaching consequences throughout the country. It sounded like even the North, cozily tucked away and doing its best to ignore any goings-on in the south, would have to deal with the Arm eventually.
‘This city is practically broken as it is. All Townes needs to do is take a stroll down the street and his job is half done. What’s really got me worried is that those two guys are out-of-towners.’ Zeb’s voice lowered. ‘They’ve got me nervous. I don’t think this city has much time. I think it’s come time to let you know the reason I hired you. But first, you should meet the guy who hired me. Up for a road trip?’
………
The road coiled across the land, wrapping itself around fields of dead corn and dried up lakes. Zeb’s truck raced along, belching black smoke and moving so smoothly it felt like they were floating. Joe sat with his arm crooked on the open window, enjoying the rush of wind funneling against his face.
Zeb was smoking a cigarette, his window open only a crack. ‘Phillip’s an interesting guy. Damn smart. He was the ambassador to Mexico before the war,’ he explained.
Joe raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re kidding? Did he know the war was coming?’
‘He claims he didn’t have a clue. And Phillip’s sharp as all hell. That just shows how sharp Buelly was to pull something like that over on the poor guy. Phillip’s had a tough time of it since the war. His wife died a couple years after from cancer’—Zeb swerved around an armadillo’s carcass—‘leaving him and his daughter alone.’
‘Shit,’ Joe halfway whispered, suddenly filled with pity for this man he hadn’t even met.
Zeb settled back in his seat and plucked the finished cigarette from his lips. He flicked it deftly through the gap in his side window. ‘He blames himself for a lot of what’s happened. Even if he’d known about half of it, I don’t know that he could’ve stopped anything.’
The truck purred up a steep hill. When they reached its crest, Zeb pointed to a house in the distance. ‘That’s it.’ It was barely visible through the trees, but soon Joe got a good look at what was one of the nicest houses he’d seen in a long time. As they neared it, he noticed how time and minimal upkeep had worn its beauty thin. Manila-colored paint peeled from the wood; empty squares pocked the roof where random shingles had been torn off by the wind; the windows were dulled and yellowed with dust; fence lines drooped clumsily into the overgrown grass beside the long gravel road leading to the house.
Phillip was waiting on the wrap-around porch to greet the visitors. He raised a hand when they pulled up to the front steps. Zeb got out of the truck and patted its roof, greeting Phillip in his twangy voice. Joe stepped out and glanced up at Phillip.
‘This must be the new employee,’ he said, padding down the steps, still wearing house slippers. ‘I’m Phillip.’
Joe introduced himself. As they shook hands, his eyes wandered to the imprint of the flask in Phillip’s front pocket.
‘Nice to finally meet you,’ Phillip went on. ‘Zeb tells me you know a good deal about vehicles. Said something about a motorcycle.’
Joe looked over at Zeb who crossed his arms and leaned against the passenger door. He couldn’t tell if Zeb’s smile showed pride in him or smugness that he’d been put on the spot. ‘Yeah, I like to think I know a bit about vehicles. We haven’t had much work yet at the shop. Back in Hell Paso I worked on a couple of cars a day.’
‘There’s going to be plenty of time to prove yourself in the weeks to come. Come on in, both of you. It’s one of the hottest days of the year right now.’
Phillip lifted his cold beer off the porch railing and opened the door for the two mechanics. Joe shut his eyes and savored the cool air pumping from ceiling vents. A television hung in a niche on the wall in front of a long couch that could easily seat six people, and a fish tank glowed blue and green beneath a painting that Joe recognized but knew nothing about. A fireplace full of wood was built into the stone wall.
‘Anyone care for a drink?’ Phillip asked.
Joe wandered over to the fish tank and stooped in front of the glowing lights. ‘I’ll take a beer,’ he said. Misery loves company, he thought.
‘Zeb—anything?’ Phillip asked.
‘I’m good.’ Zeb held up a hand.
Phillip finished off his current beer and pulled two more from the fridge.
‘Thanks,’ said Joe, taking the cold beer.
Zeb dropped wearily into a seat around the circular kitchen table. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. His eyes were distant, his thoughts clearly taking him somewhere very far away. From the kitchen Joe could see Midland’s hills rolling against the skyline. Somewhere behind them, Slushland, with its single river and collapsed bridge, was just waking up from its regular nightmarish sleep.
‘Townes is recruiting outsiders,’ Zeb said to Phillip who leaned against the counter cupping the beer with both hands.
Phillip nodded, unsurprised. ‘I guess he exhausted all the resources that Slushland had to offer. Once he takes Slushland and really makes a name for himself, that’s when new recruits will be arriving by the truckload. I’d wager he has a couple hundred people at his disposal right now. That number will reach a thousand before month’s end.’
Now that Joe had a chance to get a decent look at him, he noticed the tired red rings branded around Phillip’s eyes, the dehydrated pupils streaked with yellow.
‘You think he’ll make a move by then?’ Zeb asked.
‘Honestly, I don’t know what he’s waiting for.’
Joe thumbed through a stack of newspapers on the counter that dated to almost three months before. Phillip watched him for a moment before asking, ‘You interested in old articles?’
Joe laid a hand flat on the top of the stack. ‘I missed a lot of what’s happening in the rest of the country, living so close to the border. The random paper picked out of the trash was my news source.’
Phillip pointed with the tip of his beer bottle to a framed newspaper-clipping hanging on the wall. ‘Take a look at that one. It might interest you.’
The frame was made of worn wood heavily sanded and coated with a maroon-colored finish. Inside was the front page of a newspaper. One of its pictures showed a middle-aged man with long thin hair and bleached white skin. His lips were fi
xed in a straight line—neither a smile nor a frown. The caption told him it was Buelly the White. Next to Buelly was a picture of a desert with mangled buildings rising up out of the sand like half-buried corpses. Beneath the picture it said ‘Mexican Ruins’. The article’s headline blared in solid black lettering: THE PURGING OF MEXICO: AFTERMATH.
‘This is dated three days after the war ended,’ Joe said without looking away from the clipping.
Behind him, Phillip grunted confirmation. Zeb shifted in his chair, trying to get a better view of the article. Joe put his hands into his pockets and bent closer to the glass to read the small print:
I write this with a trembling hand. Friends, loyal readers, forgive me if I venture into the realm of subjectivity during this short editorial. With all that’s happened, I don’t see how a human of sound mind could look at the events of the past few years objectively.
We’ve been reduced to nothing by so many forces of evil at work in this world: Buelly, Barrett Wheeler, the Desaparecidos, to name a few. There remain people whose evil hasn’t been uncovered. Phillip Goodwin, who still pleads ignorance, is one such man. As always, time reveals all things, and his role in the War of Borders remains a mystery.
For those who do not know, the war is over. We won, if you call the murder of thousands of innocents winning. I’ve walked along the border of Mexico and Texas and seen the bodies of men who gave their lives protecting two glorious countries. But when historians hundreds of years from now look back on this time, and when children in classrooms read about this war, they will know one thing: we began the war when the Desaparecidos stormed Mexico City, and we ended it when the bombs fell.
Right now, we truly understand the meaning of the axiom ‘you reap what you sow.’ We spread the seeds of violence by allowing one man to control our lives, our thoughts, and our government. When his silver tongue turned to ash, we found ourselves waist deep in the embers.
There’s little point in my continuing with this editorial. This magazine will never be printed again. We backed a man and his lies, spun his bullshit into gold and fed it to all of you. Our judgment is now suspect, and rightfully so. For all these things, I am sincerely sorry. An apology means little I know, but it is all I have to offer.
Good luck and God bless as you create a life in this new world.
Joe’s eyes wandered to the top of the article and settled on Buelly. Although he hadn’t heard every detail about the war, about what actually happened, he’d heard plenty about Buelly. People called him the White Devil all over the south. Warmongering Coward was another favorite throughout Hell Paso. Joe stared him down as if staring down the real man, as if they’d bumped into each other on a street corner somewhere in the North. He wondered what that confrontation would be like. Would he simply kill the man who caused the deaths of so many innocents? Or would he ask him first why he did it?
It often baffled him how an entire country could at one point have rallied behind such a man. Joe was only nine or ten when the war began, maybe six when Buelly came to power—much too young to understand the headlines and the reports on television, too young to understand why his father had to leave for this thing called war.
‘It’s hard to believe this really happened,’ Joe said, breaking the silence that had filled the kitchen.
One moment, Buelly was the country’s crowning glory, the man that would lead them into a prosperous era, lead them into the next renaissance; a week later, he’d fled to the north-easternmost point of the country, leaving the rest of the country to clean up his bloody mess.
Phillip put an empty beer bottle onto the countertop. ‘The proof is in the pudding. I suppose you noticed my honorable mention in there. If I had known what was going to happen, I would have strangled Buelly with my bare hands.’
Phillip seemed sincere, though Joe had a difficult time understanding how he could have been so close to Buelly and not have known. Then again, the fact that Buelly hadn’t trusted Phillip seemed to prove Phillip’s credibility as a decent, sane human being.
‘Does anyone know exactly where he is?’ Joe asked.
Zeb answered. ‘There’re rumors he’s in Boston somewhere, living like a king when he should be strung up on one of Slushland’s skyscrapers.’ He leveled a finger at the article. ‘He’s gonna pay for his crimes sooner or later. I’d like to be there when he does.’
Joe walked away from the clipping and went to another picture angled beneath the window. Dust covered the glass, obscuring the image. ‘You mind?’ he asked.
‘Go ahead,’ Phillip said.
Joe wiped away the dust with the bottom of his shirt and lifted the picture for a better view. A surprised grin spread over his face. The photograph was of three people: Phillip, a woman who was presumably Phillip’s deceased wife, and Amanda—Joe recognized her straight away, even though she was much younger in the photograph. They were standing on the beach, the sun setting metallically behind them. Phillip’s wife’s head was wrapped in a colorful bandana; Amanda looked like she had enough hair for the both of them—it fell to her shoulders in waves. She couldn’t have been older than ten, but Joe was positive it was her. Then he recalled her mentioning Midland and her father who, in the picture, looked healthier and happier: demon free.
………
That night, Joe sat with Amanda on the front porch swing while Zeb and Phillip stood in the yard grilling burgers and hot dogs. Phillip hadn’t stopped drinking since they arrived that morning, eventually switching from beer to whisky as the day wore on. Joe quit after two beers. Zeb hadn’t touched the alcohol at all, though he wasn’t without his vices: his once full pack of cigarettes now contained only two and he refused to share them with anyone.
‘What’re the odds I come home and find you?’ Amanda said, pushing her feet against the deck, swaying the swing back and forth.
Joe smiled and took a sip of the iced tea Amanda had made him. ‘Anything happen at work today?’
‘Tom’s acting weird again.’ She looked at Joe and brushed her jagged hair behind her ears. ‘I think he’s back on drugs.’
‘You know what kind?’
‘Seedjoi probably. That’s what it was last time.’
‘My mom’s boyfriend was big into serratone. He couldn’t afford seedjoi luckily.’ Joe scratched his head. ‘Have you two ever dated?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.
By the look on Amanda’s face, he knew he’d failed miserably. ‘Why? Are you interested in him?’
‘I was just thinking, you two work together and…I don’t know, I just wondered,’ he said, shrugging it off and hoping she’d move onto a new subject. He felt like a moron for even bringing it up.
‘You and Zeb work together. Where’d you take him on your last date?’
‘Okay, okay,’ Joe said, drinking some tea and trying to hide his face. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. But you never did answer my question.’
‘I’d rather put an icepick through my eye than date Tom. How’s that for an answer?’
‘That’ll do.’
Amanda went inside to refill their glasses, leaving Joe time to catch his breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around a girl this pretty, certainly not in Hell Paso. His determination to stick it out in Slushland was stronger than ever now that she seemed to be a permanent part of his life. The thing he liked best about her, Joe thought while he rocked on the porch swing, was her strength, considering what she’s been through—losing her mother after the war when she was still so young, watching everything around her change, and yet still growing up to be kind and good-humored.
Near the grill, Phillip laughed at something Zeb said, which gave Joe another thing to tack on his list: every day Amanda had to watch her father fall deeper into his addiction, just like he’d had to watch his mother grow weaker every day, eventually supporting herself using addicts who couldn’t even care for themselves.
Amanda returned with two full glasses of tea and eased down onto the porch swing. ‘Where did
Zebulan get a name like Zebulan? Were his parents from outer space?’ she asked.
‘I think they must’ve really, really liked science-fiction,’ Joe answered.
Later, the four of them ate dinner at the circular kitchen table. Burgers, hotdogs, coleslaw, baked beans, and another two beers for Phillip. Joe ate slowly, enjoying the meal and amazed that Phillip maintained his composure after drinking half his body weight in alcohol. Zeb hadn’t been lying when he’d said Phillip had a problem.
Out of nowhere, Phillip asked, ‘Did Amanda tell you that she writes poetry?’
Joe shook his head, smiling at her. ‘No, but I’ll have to read it sometime.’
Amanda slid her father’s beer away from him. ‘I think that’s enough for you, old man.’
Enough arrived about four hours ago, Joe thought.
After clearing her plate, Amanda hugged Phillip, said goodnight to the rest, and went upstairs to sleep. Joe stood up to go clear his plate, but Phillip waved a hand towards him. ‘Later. There are things we need to discuss.’ He brought a whisky bottle and three glasses to the fireplace. ‘Help yourselves,’ he said, then turned to light the logs.
Soon, flames licked the air, spitting black smoke towards the flue. Joe poured himself some whisky and leaned back in the wooden chair near the hearth.
‘Oh, what the hell,’ Zeb said, and reached forward for a shot of whisky.
‘Let’s get down to brass tacks, gentlemen,’ Phillip said, bending forward, bunching his hands together on the coffee table beside his full glass. ‘Zeb already knows a good deal about the project that I and some others have been working on. I’m not going to tell you everything tonight, Joe, but I’m going to start you off with more than I told Zeb when he first signed up. The more I trust you and the more you prove yourself, the more you get to know.’
Joe nodded, not breaking contact with Phillip’s eyes. They were watery and yellow, but somehow sharp and focused all at once.
‘Zeb and I have been looking for another mechanic who can help Zeb throughout the last stages of the project for close to…I don’t know—’ He looked to Zeb for an answer.
Our Home is Nowhere (The Borrowed Land, Book 1) Page 11
